


Stumbling towards the end of confusion

by kcstories



Category: Fringe
Genre: Canon Divergence, F/M, season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-05 02:42:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6685963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kcstories/pseuds/kcstories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A new case and finally, some personal clarity. (S4 AU/Detour)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stumbling towards the end of confusion

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine. No profit is made. The 'case' plot was inspired by the Kate Bush song "Experiment IV" and its accompanying video.
> 
> Ships: Olivia/Lincoln, past Olivia/Peter.

"Music For Pleasure," the large sign in the hallway reads.

Special Agent Lincoln Lee smiles wryly as he studies his surroundings.

There's nothing pleasant about this, nothing at all...

Fifteen people perished in bizarre circumstances. Fifteen corpses, faces pale, expressions grim.

The building, a recording studio on a quiet road, looks peaceful enough. There are no signs of violence. There's no evidence of any kind of a struggle. He sees no reason to suspect there were hazardous chemicals involved, either.

He nods at the police officer taking notes and walks over to where Olivia is standing. 

Beneath her professional demeanour, she looks sickly and tired, more so than usual. Lincoln isn't surprised; worried as hell, yes, but it wouldn't be a good idea to let her know that.

"Agent Lee," she says, keeping their communication formal in the presence of the hastily assembled forensic team. 

"Agent Dunham," he replies, following her lead.

She tells him about the case, the little they've found out about it thus far.

A FedEx guy discovered the bodies. He comes here every day, delivering demos and fan mail usually. When no one answered the door this morning, a very unusual occurrence, he decided to look through one of the large windows. 

Nothing could have possibly prepared him for this grisly sight.

"He was taken to the hospital. To be treated for shock. He has a history of heart problems, apparently, so they wanted to be make sure he'd be okay."

"Of course."

They both know the phoney ambulance dropped the man off at _Massive Dynamic_ instead.

The people in charge have been doing that a lot lately, messing with civilians' minds, altering or erasing memories to keep all knowledge of Fringe Events contained, and to ward off mass panic for as long as humanly possible.

"There's not much more we can do now but wait," Olivia says.

Lincoln nods. His gaze follows hers to the front door. 

Dr Bishop arrives with today's offering of bizarre equipment: a large rusty metal contraption that looks like he stole it from a Steampunk Convention. 

Astrid Farnsworth trails in behind him, carrying two large Starbucks cups.

"Oh! Hello, you two," Bishop says pleasantly. Dead bodies a-plenty, not a clue in sight and the prospect of pizza later; he's right in his element. "Olivia. Agent Lee. We'll put this down here temporarily, shall we? Yes?"

"That's fine, Walter." 

Olivia's smile fades. 

Lincoln soon sees why. 

Peter Bishop is standing by the door.

To Lincoln, he appears to be looming, like a dark ominous cloud.

It's going to be a long day.

 

*

 

Walter Bishop makes his rounds of the building. He discovers turntables, cassette players, all types of musical instruments and sound equipment while he scours the rooms for clues and perhaps, if he's lucky, more chocolate bars like the one he found and promptly gobbled down earlier, before anyone had the chance to say 'crime scene', 'tampering with evidence' or something equally tedious and spoil his fun.

In front of a large synthesiser, Peter pauses. "What the hell is this? Did we get beamed back to the eighties?" 

It wouldn't be appropriate to laugh, so no one does.

"It does look like time stood still here," Olivia offers. "I'd expected computers, laptops, iPods, more state of the art... stuff... everything here looks so…"

"Vintage," Peter finishes for her.

"Yeah. Do you suppose that means anything?"

He just shrugs.

They get to the final door at the back. The atmosphere there seems somehow different; the air is thick, the half-light daunting. 

The room they enter is almost empty, save for a complicated switchboard and behind it, a machine so large it takes up three quarters of the available space.

"More recording equipment?" Olivia wonders aloud.

"I don't think so," Lincoln says carefully.

His step determined, Walter heads straight for the switchboard.

"Wait! Don't touch anything!" Peter warns. 

The forensic team said the same thing earlier, albeit more as a formality than anything else. By now, they're all too aware that Dr Bishop never listens, certainly not to reason; his idea of logic is very different from the average person's, after all.

Walter pushes the green button (everyone knows one must never, ever, touch the red).

A piercing shriek fills the room. 

Olivia covers her ears, a feeble attempt to prevent the inevitable headache. 

Seemingly out of nowhere, a skeletal being swoops down, all red eyes and gangly hands.

It goes straight for Peter.

Astrid screams.

Lincoln grabs his gun and fires. He hits the creature right in the skull. With another chilling shriek, it vanishes as quickly as it appeared.

"What the fuck was that?" Peter looks furious and uncharacteristically scared, in more or less equal measure.

"All right then! Ladies and gentlemen," Walter announces brightly. "We have to take this machine back to my lab. Somehow."

Having regained her composure, Astrid rings Broyles. She requests a large truck.

"No, on second thought, Sir, make that three."

 

*

 

"How's the headache?" Lincoln asks, carrying in a tray with coffee and sandwiches. 

"A bit better," Olivia replies, smiling slightly. "Thanks."

He sits down at his desk, it's right across from hers, and nods.

Neither of them could be of any help at the lab, so they returned to their office. 

Meanwhile, Walter, Peter and Astrid will be conducting the autopsies. They'll also study the machine as thoroughly as possible, hopefully without any additional mishaps.

Olivia takes a bite off a chicken sandwich. She tries to concentrate on the email in front of her – something about missing paperclips of all things, but fails.

Her mind drifts. It's been doing that a lot lately, ever since she remembered what Peter Bishop meant to her; or rather, to another version of herself in a parallel life she recalls living but never actually experienced.

_Massive Dynamic_ helped restore those memories. She insisted they do so. 

For weeks prior to that, she'd been having unsettling hallucinations and bizarre dreams, all about someone who was practically a stranger. She wanted an explanation.

Once she got one, she understood, at least on some level, why some say ignorance is bliss. 

Without realising it, she lets out a long, weary sigh.

"You know," Lincoln says. "If you’re freaking out and need to talk, I _am_ here..."

Recalling their most awkward conversation to date (and hopefully ever), Olivia resists the urge to throw her napkin at him. "You're never going to let me live that down, are you?" 

He grins. "Probably not."

She can't help but grin back. Her headache is slowly fading.

 

*

 

"These poor people were quite literally scared to death," Walter declares on the phone. "Their blood froze in their veins, instantly and permanently. I've never seen anything like it before. We still haven't figured out how it happened, exactly, the cause or chemical process behind this... event." He pauses for a moment. "Obviously, at this stage, it would be ill-advised to switch the machine back on..."

"Obviously," Lincoln echoes dryly.

"But we will get to the bottom of this, Agent Lee. Somehow. Starting right after tea! And needless to say, I will keep you posted."

"I'd appreciate that, Dr Bishop. Thank you."

"Not at all. Do tell Agent Dunham I said hello."

 

*

 

After a lengthy status meeting with Broyles, Lincoln and Olivia are back at their desks.

A call was made to the other universe. On their side, the recording studio's location is occupied by a public swimming pool and there’s no sign of a perilous machine anywhere. This is considered good news.

Broyles also contacted Massive Dynamic. Nina Sharp doesn’t have a clue. Or so she claims; Lincoln cannot picture that woman not knowing a least a little something about pretty much anything.

"What do you think of Peter Bishop?" Olivia's question comes out of nowhere.

Lincoln hesitates. "How do you mean?"

"Just that.” Her voices trembles a bit. “What kind of person does he seem to you?" 

Lincoln frowns. He knows of her history with Bishop Junior — some of it, anyway, the little he managed to piece together from tiny conversation snippets here and there. 

He's aware, too, that she now remembers everything about this alternate timeline she was also a part of, although she seems in no hurry to do anything about it.

He has to wonder why not, but it's really none of his business and she doesn't know him that well yet, probably not enough to confide in him, so he keeps his many questions to himself. She'll tell him when she's good and ready. Or she won't of course; she certainly doesn’t owe him any explanations.

"Peter Bishop." He tries to keep his tone of voice as neutral as possible. "He’s quite the asset. I doubt we would’ve cracked those last two cases without his help.”

Olivia bites her bottom lip. "So you like him?"

"Honestly?"

"Yes."

"Okay." Lincoln pinches the bridge of his nose, readjusting his glasses. "Honestly, Olivia, I don't like the way his being here has affected you. In fact, it makes me pretty angry.” He sighs. “But then, at the same time, I know it doesn't make sense to be mad at him; he’s as much a victim of circumstance as you are; he didn't ask for any of this, either. He just wants to be back with the people he loves.”

Lincoln pauses for a moment, then continues: “At the end of the day, he's not a bad guy. In another time and place, I expect he and I would be pretty good friends by now."

Olivia suppresses a sigh. Lincoln is absolutely right. Peter Bishop isn't a bad guy, which only makes this all the harder. 

 

*

 

"A sound that could kill someone," Walter declares the following morning. 

Lincoln and Olivia have just arrived at the lab, each carrying a steaming mug of coffee.

"That's what this is, what it does," he continues, pointing at the machine. "It's intel, fairly old intel, late seventies, early eighties, you know, from when everyone was convinced the Soviets would soon be coming for us all. We needed a weapon to defend ourselves, one that was as effective but not as devastating as say... ah... an atom bomb. So one day, someone, a Scottish fellow according to this book I found, came up with this ingenious idea..." 

Excited to be sharing his findings, Walter starts pacing the room.

"Everyone assumed all the research he undertook had been a merely theoretical endeavour. No one actually thought it possible for his invention to be built and yet... Voilà!" He makes a dramatic arm gesture towards the machine. "There we have it. Unfortunately someone activated it, causing all those poor souls to perish.”

Lincoln wants to ask who and why, but Walter isn't quite finished yet.

"I imagine it happened by accident. The recording studio had been abandoned for a long while, only to be used again at the start of this year; it was purchased by some reclusive female singer, I cannot recall her name at the moment; she was quite famous once. In England in the late seventies, she had this massive number one hit based on a classic novel. But what was her name again? Blast, it's on the tip of my tongue! I even have two of her records! Damn!" He stomps his foot in frustration. 

"Walter," Peter interrupts, steering the conversation back to the heart of the matter. "So you think the machine was switched on accidentally?"

"Yes," he says. "Yes, indeed, I believe this to be correct. You see, the recording studio had been left untouched for many decades before our illustrious songstress acquired it lock, stock and barrel. She couldn’t have been aware that the state of the art (at least for its day) sound machine at the back was also a weapon in disguise. A clever disguise, I might add, hidden in plain sight. And then some day, at some point, some poor bastard flipped the wrong switch; the consequences, as we saw, were absolutely devastating!"

Olivia and Lincoln nod.

"Yes, but one question remains," Astrid pipes up from her corner. "What do we do now?" 

She's busy with something unrelated to the case. From where Lincoln's standing, it looks like she's rolling dough for croissants, chocolate croissants. He shakes his head. The FBI cannot possibly be paying her enough for this.

"Do we destroy the machine, perhaps unleashing the creature once more in the process?" Walter asks no one in particular. "Or do we put the machine in storage and risk someone else, a few decades from now, accidentally activating it again?"

A contemplative silence sets in, then Peter has an idea. "How about we hand it over to _Massive Dynamic_? They're pretty skilled at annihilating dangerous objects."

 

*

 

In the late afternoon, Olivia and Lincoln are back at the office. The case was solved fairly quickly for a change and the amount of mortal peril was minimal compared to what the Fringe Division usually deals with. Not bad for only a few days' work. 

"Lincoln?" 

Across his paperwork, he looks at her. "Mm?"

"That, um, offer you made me..." She hesitates. "About needing to talk if I'm freaking out?"

He almost smiles but decides against it, something in her voice is deadly serious — haunting.

"Go on," he says softly.

"I'd like to take you up on that, if..." She clears her throat, awkwardly. "If you have time."

He moves to stand, paperwork pushed aside for now. "Of course. How about we get out of here?"

 

*

 

They end up at the diner they’ve been to a few times before. The place is surprisingly quiet today. There’s only one other customer, an elderly lady drinking coffee and reading a book.

"They do a great cherry pie, according to Walter," Olivia says. "Did you know that?" 

Lincoln smiles. "No, I didn't. Cherry pie it is, then."

They order and make small talk; about the weather, life in Boston, their favourite music and also the singer they assume Walter meant.

"So," Lincoln then ventures carefully. "What's bothering you? If you still want to talk about it, that is?"

He allows her an easy, elegant escape from a potentially sticky conversation, and while Olivia does appreciate the sentiment, she really needs to discuss a few things, or at least share them with someone.

In normal circumstances, she'd talk to Nina, but confiding in her would be far too awkward now; in this reality, Nina may have raised her, but the Nina from her new memories didn't and that, too, is a complete mess. 

Another possible option would be Broyles, but not in this instance. If Broyles knew just how hard a time she's been having, he'd take her off field duty in a flash and being stuck at home with too much time to ponder is pretty much the last thing she needs right now.

So that leaves Lincoln.

Olivia can't help but think back on everything he's done for her: giving her her migraine pills when her hands were shaking too badly to open the bottle, that time he stopped her from hitting the floor when she collapsed at the water cooler, how he saved her life once when she was too late — too clumsy — reaching for her gun. 

He always takes care of their paperwork, too — in that neat, immaculate handwriting of his, because she's been so tired lately, too exhausted sometimes to even see straight. 

He's always been there: loyal, reliable, right in front of her. She also knows for certain that he never told Broyles or anyone else just how badly she's been struggling. 

Amidst all this confusion, he’s the best friend she has.

"Peter," she says. "It's about Peter."

Lincoln's pulse quickens. He forces his face into a neutral expression, determined not to let his anxiety show. 

None of this is really any of his business, it doesn't concern him directly, but in the short time he's known her, he has grown to care deeply about Olivia. Hell, who is he kidding? He's madly in love with her. But if she belongs with Peter Bishop, that's just the way things are. He's not the kind of man who'd try to come between them. 

"As you know," Olivia says. "They — _Massive Dynamic_ — gave me my memories back, accelerated, all at once, and I-I do remember him now. Peter, I mean. I remember spending time with him, being with him..." She swallows thickly. "Being in love with him. But…”

"But?" Lincoln echoes, somewhat warily.

"Those memories feel more like... something out of a dream. They're not... I'm not..." She notices she's talking quite loudly, so she lowers her voice to an almost-whisper. "I remember loving Peter, but I'm not in love with him. I see him and I…" She looks sad, defeated even. "I feel nothing. I probably should, he's a nice guy: intelligent, kind, devoted and clearly, somewhere, at some point, we had something beautiful and special, but… I'm just so… angry, lost and confused." She shakes her head. "I'm a neurotic mess. I’m not sure I even know who I am anymore."

Lincoln frowns. He should probably speak, offer some words of comfort or at the very least, say something that's not entirely stupid or inappropriate. (Please?)

She doesn’t wait for a response, however. "And it isn’t all about Peter. Something like this happened before. When I was kidnapped, they, on the other side, put the memories of their Olivia in my head so I was convinced I was her. It wasn’t easy getting myself back after that, getting all of _her_ out of my headspace. It took time and medication, too much medication, and now there’s this…. It just never stops!”

She clenches her fingers to fists and fights back tears, angry ones.

“Ever since I found out the truth, this new truth, my head keeps spinning. On the one hand, there's the life I know I lived and on the other, there's this parallel existence with Peter in it, but that just seems so foreign, like I wasn't there, which makes sense because I wasn't. I can't relate to it, it’s not me! I should feel connected to Peter, miss... him... us… because of this shared history, but I don't... And I feel awful about that — guilty. I really do. You see, Peter deserves better. He deserves..." She sighs.

"Olivia." Lincoln gently lays his right hand atop hers. "What happened when the timeline was reset, it was completely beyond your control. It was done to you. You didn’t cause any of it. You have nothing to feel guilty about.”

He hesitates a second, then continues:

"I can't tell you what to feel or do, but I don't think this is a matter of right or wrong." He gives her hand a light squeeze. "You’ll figure it out. From what I understand, you always do."

"I hope you're right." She tries to smile. "Thanks."

 

*

 

Many hours later, they leave the diner.

Olivia feels lightheaded. She's had too much coffee, the strong kind, and she just spent all that time talking. She must have told Lincoln her entire life story — well, both her life stories, more or less. 

On the sidewalk, on the way back to his car, she stumbles. He catches her in the nick of time. 

It's almost a cliché when he holds her in his arms and they gaze into each other's eyes.

The kiss happens before they realise it. It's sweet, intense and feels long overdue.

Lincoln looks regretful when their lips break apart. "God, I’m sorry, Olivia," he whispers. "I really didn't want to add to your confusion."

"No,” she says, smiling, “you did the exact opposite,” and she kisses him again.

 

*

 

They drive to his hotel. It offers them more privacy than her place does, or rather: they're a lot less likely to be disturbed there.

"You still haven't found an apartment?" Olivia asks.

Lincoln shakes his head. "I haven't really looked."

"Oh?" 

"I've been a bit busy," he says with a slight grin as he steps closer and cups her face. "It's on my to-do list, though."

Olivia smiles. She imagined he'd be shy, awkward and fumble like an inexperienced teenager — he just looks so young sometimes. 

She couldn't have been more wrong. His kisses leave her breathless.

They sit down on the bed.

He puts his glasses on the nightstand, kisses a trail down her neck and slowly unbuttons her blouse. 

"You are sure, aren't you, Olivia? That this is what you want? I’d hate for you to regret this later..."

She looks at him, unruly hair and wide eyes. He seems insecure suddenly and terribly vulnerable. 

Looking back, she felt drawn to him from the moment they first met. Slowly, carefully something started to blossom between them, but then Peter Bishop emerged from a lake and complicated everything.

She and Lincoln never had a proper chance, not until now…

"Yes," she says, placing her hands on his shoulders. "I want this — want you."

His smile, then, makes her heart melt. He kisses her again.

Clothes are dropped onto the floor. Rational thought slips away. All that matters are his lips, his hands, and his body so close to hers.

A moan escapes her mouth as his fingers travel lower, in between her legs.

"God, Lincoln…" 

He moves inside her, she wraps her arms and legs around him, wanting to be close — closer, closer — as a familiar tension begins to build.

She holds him even tighter when she comes hard, gasping and trembling from the intensity of it all.

He's not far behind, moaning against her neck.

A few moments later, he carefully rolls off her, but doesn't let go. "Stay here tonight? With me?"

"Mmm," she murmurs.

She scoots closer to him. He wraps an arm around her. She rests her head against his chest. He caresses her hair. 

She closes her eyes and to the sound of his heartbeat, soon drifts into slumber. 

That night, Lincoln, too, finally sleeps.

 

*

 

The buzzing cell phone wakes him just after seven. It's a text from Broyles, requesting a meeting.

Lincoln curses under his breath. 

Next to him, Olivia is sound asleep. 

As quietly as he can, Lincoln climbs out of bed. He takes a quick shower, gets dressed, writes a short note, and leaves.

Olivia doesn’t stir. He's glad. She needs all the rest she can get. 

 

*

 

"You wanted to see me, Sir?"

"Yes, Agent Lee," Broyles says. "Please, take a seat."

Lincoln does.

"First of all, good work on handling that last case so smoothly. No loose ends?"

"None, Sir."

Broyles nods. "All right. The reason I wanted to see you this morning, Agent Lee, is because I have a proposition for you."

Lincoln can barely hide his smile. Here it comes, the opportunity he's been waiting for and the timing couldn't possibly be better. 

"I believe you requested a transfer to Boston," Broyles continues. "You expressed an interest in joining the Fringe Division in a more permanent capacity. Is that correct?"

"Yes, it is."

"May I ask why?"

Lincoln is prepared for this question, so it doesn't take him long to answer: "Firstly, because I'm determined to find whoever's responsible for my former partner's death and bring them to justice. I believe I have a better chance of accomplishing that here than back home."

Broyles nods in understanding — _back home_ they've never heard of Shapeshifters and it's likely better that way. "And secondly?"

"I really like the team I'm in currently; Agents Dunham and Farnsworth and Dr Bishop, we work very well together."

"As I understand it, you've been working with Peter Bishop as well?"

"Yes, Sir."

"He hasn't been causing any trouble?"

"No, none at all. He seems to know a lot about the science-side of things. He's been invaluable, helped us close this case, too." 

Broyles nods again. "Very well. I'll get the ball rolling for your transfer."

This time, Lincoln doesn't bother to conceal his smile.

"There is one more thing, however..."

"Sir?"

"About Agent Dunham..."

Lincoln puts on his best poker face; Broyles cannot possibly know just how close he and Olivia have become, but then perhaps he does; he's not the sort of man one should underestimate.

"Yes?"

"She has been through a lot these last couple of months, more than most. She's strong, competent, one of our best people, and I expect she can handle it, but still... I would consider it a personal favour to me if you would look out for her wellbeing; keep an eye on her, just in case? I assume I can count on you, Agent Lee?"

"Yes, of course," Lincoln says. "That goes without saying, Sir."

*

When Lincoln arrives, Olivia is already at the lab, discussing a new case with Walter. 

She smiles at him as he walks in.

He smiles back.

It's not the sort of smile they usually share: it's brighter and more intimate.

Astrid and Walter don't notice something's changed. 

Peter does.

Before she and Lincoln return to the federal building, Olivia walks over to him.

“We need to talk,” she says; four ominous words, never easily spoken.

"It's all right." His smile seems genuine. "I know."

She frowns.

"You're in love with Lincoln," he states plainly.

She opens her mouth to speak, but he holds up a hand. "No. You don't have to explain, Olivia. It's okay."

She blinks. "It is?"

"Yeah." He smiles again. "And I think he's waiting for you."

She turns her gaze to see that, indeed he is, looking uncertain, maybe even worried. She hopes he doesn't think she changed her mind. 

"Okay then, Peter," she says. "I-I guess I'll see you tomorrow?"

He nods. "You will. Bye, Olivia."

He watches as she rejoins Lincoln, who gives him a brief parting nod before they walk out the door. 

Peter realises this hurts less than he assumed it would.

Olivia is alive and happy with someone who loves her. Yes, in an ideal situation, that person would be him, but still... This is good enough, far better than the alternative, the future where she died and he lost her completely, forever. 

Here and now, they're still friends. They probably always will be.

"Peter? Say, Peter?"

He looks up. 

Walter is offering him a strawberry milkshake. He finally perfected his recipe, he says.

_Fin._


End file.
